


a time to receive

by shadowen



Series: there is a season [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst and Feels, Anxiety Attacks, Christmas, Deaf Clint Barton, Disabilities, Family Drama, Food, Found Family, Friendship, Holidays, M/M, Meet the Family, Poverty, Protective Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, the good news is that you’ll either run screaming or be part of the family forever.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	a time to receive

**Author's Note:**

> Minor warning: There are some issues with anxiety attacks and ableism and possibly vague references to past dubcon. Mostly there's just lots of feels.
> 
> All the love and thanks to hoosierbitch and JHSC for reading, cheerleading, and crying. <3

The next time Clint gets invited to dinner, he's so shocked he almost forgets to say yes and thanks. Then they start asking him to go out and study and play video games and things that friends do. Sometimes Bucky shows up in his room for no other reason than to, apparently, talk to Clint. Miles starts referring to them as Clint's posse, but Clint thinks he's just been adopted into Bucky's posse.

They're gathered around the table in the apartment with stacks of books and pizza boxes when Steve starts passing around a plastic bowl with folded strips of paper. Bucky selects one and cheers, "Yes!"

Natasha and Sam have more subdued but equally pleased reactions to their choices, then the bowl comes to Clint, and he pulls out a slip of paper with Natasha's name on it. He looks up at Bucky and shakes his head, confused.

"Secret Santa," Bucky says. At Clint's frown, he breaks into a wide grin. "You've never done Secret Santa? Oh, this is gonna be great."

"So you get a Christmas present for the person whose name you got," Steve explains. "Whoever got your name will get a present for you, and then we have a party on New Year’s Eve and exchange gifts."

"And eat cookies and drink eggnog," Sam adds.

"Important parts of the process," Bucky agrees.

Clint blinks. "Presents, like what?"

"Anything you think they'll like," Steve replies, as Bucky leans into Clint's shoulder, craning his neck to see the paper. "And it's supposed to be a _secret_ ," Steve says, glaring at Bucky.

Bucky sits back with a sigh, and Clint asks, "What if I, uh, need help?"

He needs help. He needs a lot of help. The list of things he needs help with on this is kind of making it hard to breathe.

Sam says, "You can get help from one person, but you can't tell anyone else and they can't tell anyone they're helping you."

"Gotcha." Clint breathes a little easier and hopes they can't hear the clench in his throat.

The next day, Bucky stops by as usual, and before Clint can even open his mouth, Bucky asks, "So you want help with the Secret Santa thing? Hey, Morales."

"Hey," Miles answers from his desk. That tends to be the extent of their interaction, not out of dislike but because they just don't have anything else to say to each other. At least, that's been Clint's assumption.

"You're gonna help me?" Clint asks, trying not to sound as plaintive as he feels.

Bucky shrugs. "Sure. You got Nat, right?"

"Do I even want to know how you know that?" Clint asks, and Bucky flashes him a bright grin and a wink. He doesn't think he's imagining how often Bucky winks at him, and he's definitely not imagining the lightness in his chest when it happens.

"When there's a question, I've got the answer." Bucky punches his shoulder lightly and jerks a thumb at the door. "Get your coat. We're going shopping."

"Oh. Okay." Clint scrambles to pull on his shoes and follow Bucky out, but Bucky stops him with a frown as he goes to leave.

"I wasn't kidding about the coat. It's freezing out there."

Outside might be freezing, but Clint's face burns as he pulls his threadbare hoodie tighter. Bucky's frown deepens, but he doesn't say anything, just turns and leads the way out. Clint's never been more grateful for silence in his life.

***

"Okay, lemme see if I've got this." They're wandering the aisles of their second flea market of the day, and it's taken this long for Bucky to get through all the details of the story. Clint ticks off the highlights on his fingers as he recaps. "You and Steve grew up together. You know Natasha from high school. Steve met Sam at a protest. Sam has his mom, Natasha's adopted, Steve has you, and you have more family than you can handle. Sam and Natasha are kind-of-but-not-really in the pre-stage of dating, you and Natasha _used_ to date, and Steve sort of maybe has a part-time girlfriend in England. Sam's straight, Steve's bisexual, Nat's - what did you call it? - demisexual, and you're pretty much mostly gay, except for Nat."

Bucky holds out his arm in pride. "That's the gang in a nutshell."

Clint’s gathered some of it from listening, but having the whole story helps him put context to their strange, familial dynamics. In some ways, he thinks they might fit in with the rest of the world just as poorly as he does, and he wants more than anything to feel like a part of their patchwork little crew. "Good gang," he says, and Bucky puts an arm around his shoulders.

"And now there's you," Bucky says. "Mysterious past, no family, astonishingly single, and at least a little bit gay."

Clint snorts. "So I'm the red-headed stepchild of the black sheep, basically."

"Hey now, Natasha is an _actual_ red-headed stepchild," Bucky tells him. "Besides, you're more like the random long spoon in the silverware drawer. We know you belong; we just don't know what to do with you yet."

The last time Clint was somewhere with a silverware drawer, other than Sam and Nat's apartment, it had been a group home, and the drawer had been kept locked. He’s sure it’s an apt metaphor, even if the meaning is lost on him.

"So Natasha," he prompts, to get them back on track and away from talking about him. “She likes pretty stuff.”

Bucky huffs. “Why? Because she’s a girl?”

“No, I mean... She likes art and knick knacks and colors, stuff like that, right?” Clint says. Bucky gives him a surprised look, and Clint glances away, crossing his arms. “Right?”

“Um, yeah. That’s pretty spot-on.” Bucky’s staring at him in a way Clint can’t figure out. “You figured that out from the apartment?”

Clint shrugs. “Unless Sam’s the one who decorated, in which case I’ve really misread that whole situation.”

Bucky laughs, and the vibration across Clint’s shoulders is just as warm as the sound. Clint wonders if Bucky realizes that his arm is still around Clint, and Clint quickly pushes down the hope that he’ll just forget and leave it there for the rest of the day.

He leaves it for a while, long enough for Clint to get used to it and to miss the weight when Bucky steps away to rifle through a box of battered books. Clint shoves his hands in his pockets and finds a display of antique knives to study until the feeling goes away.

It takes another hour of shopping, but Clint finally finds the perfect gift. It’s a small lacquer jewelry box with a phoenix at rest painted on the lid and a tiny gold lock to keep it closed, a delicate key tied to it with a piece of ribbon. The varnish and the velvet lining are a little chipped and stained with age, but Clint thinks the imperfections give it a life of its own, a history to keep secret. He presents it to Bucky for approval and gets a broad grin.

“You’re definitely gonna win Christmas, this year,” Bucky says. “Not that it’s a competition, but it’s totally a competition.”

“You guys? Competitive? No way,” Clint teases, and Bucky shoves him with a shoulder, still grinning.

“Watch it, punk. I haven’t picked out my gift yet. Maybe I’ll get something super awesome, just to show you up.” 

He stays close to Clint as they walk toward the check-out, their shoulders bumping together, and Clint thinks it might be on purpose. Which of them is making it happen, he can’t be sure, but it’s the side with Bucky’s prosthetic, which means something that Clint can’t quite put his finger on.

Distracted by the hunt and the way his skin heats up when Bucky touches him, Clint doesn’t realize that he forgot to check the price of the box until he’s pulling crumpled bills out of his wallet and the cashier is looking impatient. “I’m sorry. I didn’t... I should’ve checked, but...”

It’s nothing, just a few dollars, but it’s a few dollars he doesn’t have. He’s about to apologize and ask the cashier to put it back, when Bucky reaches around him with enough cash to cover the difference.

“Man, that’s the worst, when you’re just a tiny bit short, and you’d swear you had a five in there this morning,” Bucky says lightly, like it doesn’t mean anything. “I do that all the time. It’s like, I only own three pairs of pants, but my cash is always in one of the ones I’m not wearing.”

The cashier chuckles. “Oh, I know what that’s like,” she says, and Bucky gives her a wink.

Something burns in Clint’s stomach, and he doesn’t want to think about what kinds of feelings are causing it. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Yeah, I know.” The smile Bucky turns on him is wicked and sharp. “I seem to recall the possibility of cock sucking, at some point.”

The cashier raises her eyebrow, and Clint feels like his insides are combusting. “Have a nice day,” she says, handing Clint his bag, and he wants nothing more than to disappear into the yellowed tile floor. Bucky just cackles gleefully and follows Clint outside.

Money isn’t a favored topic among his new friends, but Clint pays enough attention to know that, whatever their current circumstances, none of them are strangers to empty pockets. Bucky can’t afford to be generous any more than Clint can afford to pay him back, and the last thing Clint wants is for that little bit of cash to be a permanent mark in his ledger or, even worse, the start of a pattern.

The bus back to campus is only half full, and they grab a seat toward the back, away from the other passengers. It takes Clint a minute to work up the nerve, but he finally manages to ask, “Is that what you want?”

He means it to be a simple question, but it comes out plaintive and small. Bucky’s attention immediately snaps to him like a doberman sensing danger, the way he does when Steve starts to cough. “What? Is what what I want?”

“For the money.” Clint clears his throat. He might be poor, dirty, and cheap, but fuck if he’s going to act ashamed. “I don’t know if I can get the cash to pay you back, but if you want me to suck your cock for it, I can do that.”

Bucky blinks at him, blank and silent. Clint tries to meet his eye and falters, staring down at the accumulation of cold sludge in the grooves along the bus floor. He tries again, and this time Clint forces himself to hold steady against Bucky’s dark stare, waiting for an answer.

“No,” Bucky says at last, firm and flat. “No, that’s not what I want.”

Relief, disappointment, and dread all flood Clint’s stomach in such a rush that he thinks he might throw up. He doesn’t ask why not, and he doesn’t ask what Bucky wants instead. He keeps his voice even and says, “Okay. Just thought I’d put it out there.”

Bucky keeps staring at him for a long time after that, but nothing else is said the whole way back to the dorm. When they part ways in the lobby, Bucky says, “See you later,” and Clint doesn’t know if he means it.

Clint wouldn’t blame Bucky for never speaking to him again, for going back and telling Steve everything that just happened, for deciding they don’t want to be associated with whatever kind of freak Clint is, for figuring that Clint’s been getting by on charity and taking all future kindnesses out in trade. That last part is out of the question, if only because Bucky is a decent guy, but Clint’s brain is spiraling through all the ways he’s just screwed up the only really good thing that’s ever happened to him.

He goes to bed and doesn’t sleep, and Miles keeps asking him if he’s sick. He says that he is and thinks it might be a little bit true.

***

Clint has convinced himself that he’ll be just fine going back to not having any friends, until the next afternoon when he comes out of his microbiology final to find Bucky and Natasha loitering in the hallway.

At first, he thinks it’s an accident they’re there and that maybe he can sneak by without any awkwardness. Then Bucky sees him and perks up with a grin, and Clint realizes they were waiting for him. He’d expect them to be waiting to warn him off or make fun of him, except that Bucky looks so damn happy to see him.

He fights down the swell of warmth in his chest and mumbles, “Hey.”

“Hey. How did it go?” Natasha asks, and it takes Clint a moment to get that she means the test.

“Oh. Fine. Easier than I thought,” he says. Nat and Bucky share a look, and Clint reminds himself that he’s weird for thinking this stuff is easy. “Not, like, _easy_ easy. I mean, I think I did okay.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Pretending you’re not a genius is just as bad as bragging about being one,” she tells him. “Besides, Bucky’s used to everyone being smarter than he is.”

“Only 'cause I like having smart friends.” With a wink at Clint, he adds, “Smart guys are hot.”

That’s it, just like nothing happened, like Clint didn’t offer him a blow job in exchange for a handful of cash, like it doesn’t change anything. “I’m already hot enough. Gotta be careful not to overdo it, or you might hurt yourself,” he teases.

Bucky shakes a warning finger at him, grinning in the way that does something strange to Clint’s pulse. “But see, then you’re being thoughtful, which is also hot. I’m pretty much doomed, here.”

“Maybe you should just go back to thinking I’m a dick,” Clint suggests, which he honestly expects to happen at any moment, so it comes out feeling less like a joke than it should.

Bucky just shakes his head. “Impossible.”

“Okay, you two. No public declarations in the hallway,” Natasha says. “At least not until after my anatomy final, which I’m going to go study for.”

“I can help you with that.” Bucky tucks his shirttail under his chin, and starts pointing to different spots on his bared torso, reciting, “Latissimis dorsi, rectus abdominis, external oblique...”

A few passing students slow down to stare, some in obvious appreciation, and Clint can’t blame them. Bucky’s abs flinch when Natasha pokes him in the stomach, and Clint’s mouth waters. Clint knows he’s attractive in a pretty-mouthed, trailer-trash kind of way, but Bucky is movie star handsome, like the square-jawed leading men in the black-and-white movies whose names he can never remember. 

Natasha gives them a parting wave as she moves gracefully down the hall, and Bucky lets his shirt fall back down, much to the disappointment of several onlookers. Clint clears his throat. “Suddenly wish I’d taken anatomy.”

“Just because you’re not in the class doesn’t mean you can’t study it.” Bucky winks at him, but his grin fades abruptly. He leans back against the wall, trying to act casual. “So, uh, I wanna ask you something, and it’s not a big deal, so you can totally say no and not feel bad. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m kind’ve in a spot.”

The answer’s going to be _yes_ ; Clint knows that in his bones, and it freaks him the hell out. Whatever it is and whether he wants to, Clint’s going to do anything Bucky wants. He’s bracing himself to keep steady when the question makes it out of Bucky’s mouth.

“Do you wanna come home with me for Christmas?”

Clint blinks. 

“I mean, if you’ve got something going on, then don’t worry about it.” Bucky shrugs. “I just figured I’d ask.”

He doesn’t have anything else, and Bucky damn well knows that. Clint’s taken enough charity in his life to know a gesture of pity when he sees it. They probably drew straws to see who was going to get stuck with him. “Why? You feel guilty about leaving me all by myself on Christmas, or are you just catching up on your good deeds for the year?”

Bucky straightens, frowning. “What are you talking about? I was just asking you t-”

“To be your family’s charity case? No thanks.” Clint crosses his arms, face hot. He should walk away, but he wants to hear it from Bucky. If all of this is just because he feels sorry for Clint, if that’s all it’s ever been, he needs to know. It might not change anything, but he needs to know.

To his surprise, Bucky laughs. “You think I’m trying to do something _nice_? Man, if I was nice, I’d ask you to spend Christmas drinking hot chocolate and fucking with the Salvation Army collectors. Believe me, I’m _asking_ a favor, not doing you one.”

“Oh.” Clint doesn’t see how Christmas with Bucky could be any kind of hardship, and he hasn’t heard anything to make him think that Bucky’s family is especially awful. Then again, he hasn’t given any hint of what his own family was like, so there’s no telling what he doesn’t know. “Yeah, okay. If you really want me to.”

Bucky’s grin returns in force. “Thank fuck. You’re my hero, seriously. Steve’s going to London to see Peggy, and I don’t think I could make it through a Barnes family Christmas without back-up.”

It’s not until later that Clint begins to understand what he’s gotten himself into, when Steve, who has been Bucky’s back-up at every other holiday in living memory, enlightens him by laughing maniacally.

“Well, the good news is that you’ll either run screaming or be part of the family forever,” Steve says. “You know he has, like, ten cousins, and they all have a ton of kids, right? Plus, you have to take an overnight bus to get there, so you get to spend sleepless hours keeping an eye on your stuff and wondering why your seat is sticky _before_ being introduced to the screaming horde of children and their obnoxious parents.”

Clint shrugs. “Sounds better than my last Christmas.”

“Where the hell did you spend last Christmas?” Steve asks, horrified.

“Soup kitchen.”

“Volunteering?”

“No.”

Steve blinks. “Oh.” Clint braces himself for the outpouring of pity he knows is coming, but Steve just says, “I don’t know if this will be _better_ , but at least you’ll be with Bucky. That’s not nothing.”

It’s a lot more than nothing. Being with Bucky has quickly become Clint’s favorite place in the world, only slightly ahead of being with Steve, who makes him feel like he matters just as much as Bucky makes him feel like he belongs. “Kind of makes everything else worth it,” he remarks, and immediately kicks himself for giving too much away.

Steve gives him a look he can’t quite decipher, but Clint catches him wince as he says, “He likes you. He flirts with everybody, but he _likes_ you. You get that, right?”

Clint shakes his head. “It’s not like that. It’s...” It’s impossible, is what it is. He’ll buy that Bucky wants to fuck him, but guys like Bucky only really like nice boys like Steve, not boys like Clint. “It’s like you said. He flirts with everybody. He’s just messing around.”

For the first time since Clint has known him, Steve looks at him like he’s stupid. “No, he’s not, and neither are you.”

Clint doesn’t know what to say to that.

***

The semester ends in a flurry of last-minute papers and frantic study sessions, and suddenly the dorm is empty. A handful of students too dedicated or too poor to travel still linger, but the only one who ever talks to Clint is the Nigerian girl who works at the front desk, and then only because they’re both chemistry minors. 

Miles takes off the day after his last final and leaves a package wrapped in old math tests on Clint’s bed with a card that says, “Happy Holidays. Stay warm.”

It’s a coat, just a cheap thing that Miles probably found on the clearance rack at the supermarket, but it’s three times thicker than Clint’s hoodie and is hands down the nicest thing anyone’s ever given him. He puts it on and cries for a solid minute before he can pull himself together to go meet Steve and Sam for lunch.

It seems like no time before he’s on a bus with Bucky, headed for Brooklyn and some unknown Christmas crucible.

“You wanna get some sleep, if you can. Got a long day ahead,” Bucky tells him. “I can watch our stuff.”

The bus is loud and steamy the way cold places get when they’re packed full of bodies. The only thing that doesn’t smell like urine and stale sweat is Bucky, who is mercifully seated between Clint and everyone else. He probably isn’t actually trying to protect Clint from the rest of the world, but Clint feels protected, nonetheless.

Despite the rattle of the bus and the hum of humanity buzzing in Clint’s hearing aids, he does, eventually, sleep and trusts that Bucky will watch out for him.

The Christmas Day sun is rising behind the Manhattan skyline as they disembark after what feels like a lifetime, and Bucky herds him onto another smaller bus, grumbling that they’ve still got a ways to go. As the city bus winds its way toward Brooklyn, Bucky reaches under his shirt and starts to unbuckle his prosthetic.

Clint mumbles something in the realm of a confused question, and Bucky sighs. “They get less freaked if I just pin up my sleeve. I dunno why, but the fake arm makes them act weird.”

“That sucks,” Clint grumbles. He’s a little punchy and exhausted and adds without thinking, “I don’t think I like your family very much.”

With one shoulder, Bucky shrugs. “They’re alright. I’m just kinda the black sheep. I make ‘em uncomfortable.” 

Clint’s seen Bucky with and without the prosthetic enough times that the difference hardly registers. He usually leaves it off in the dorm or at Sam and Nat’s, but never in public, never when there are strangers around. This is different, like he has to pretend that he’s comfortable and at home just to put everyone else at ease. Whether Bucky actually thinks of it that way, Clint doesn’t know, but the idea makes his skin crawl.

Before Clint can think of a response, Bucky says evenly, “You never asked how I lost it.”

Clint blinks. “Why the hell would I ask that?”

For a second, Bucky looks taken aback, then he tilts his head curiously, watching Clint with furrowed brows. “ _Everybody_ asks.”

“Everybody should mind their damn business,” Clint grumbles, slouching down in his seat. “Not like I’m not curious or I don’t care or something, I just figure it’s probably not a nice story, whatever it is, and that’s the kinda thing people tell you when they trust you, not something you ask about.”

Bucky just stares at him for a moment, then leans back into his own seat, looking away. Quietly, he says, “Thanks. For not asking, I mean.”

Clint shrugs, suddenly angry at the normally-abled world in general. “Yeah, well, thanks for not treating me like I’m stupid or asking how my ears got busted.”

“Oh my god. Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone you’re deaf,” Bucky tells him emphatically. “They’ll just yell at you in Yiddish and wave their hands. Seriously, the whole disability thing is a can of worms you do _not_ want to open.”

Yelling and hand-waving is par for the course, with most people, Clint thinks. “Never is.”

“Seriously, though. Most ‘em are pretty great.” Bucky pauses. “Well, my mom’s great, but she loves Steve, so she might take it out on you that you’re, uh, not Steve.”

“Not being Steve is truly the greatest challenge of my existence,” Clint drawls. Honestly, some things might be a lot easier if he was at least a little bit like Steve.

“Believe me when I say that I’m very _very_ glad you’re not Steve,” Bucky says seriously. “Not that... I mean, me and Steve, y’know, but you, you’re... You know what I mean?”

Clint tries to parse that statement as he nods, but the nod quickly devolves into shaking his head. “I have no idea,” he admits, and Bucky joins him in laughing.

“Any other last-minute words of wisdom?” Clint asks.

After a moment’s consideration, Bucky answers, “Don’t eat anything you can’t immediately identify.”

Clint doesn’t want to think about some of the things he’s eaten that he couldn’t identify or where those things came from. He can’t imagine having so much food available that he’d turn his nose up at any of it. “You know me. I’ll eat anything,” he says lightly. 

Deadly serious, Bucky replies, “I like you too much to let you do that.”

Clint’s whole body goes hot, from his toes to his hair, and he knows he’s probably beet red. To his surprise, Bucky blushes, too.

“I mean, uh, y’know, I wouldn’t let anybody I care about eat aunt Enid’s potatoes.” Grinning, Bucky bumps his shoulder against Clint’s. “It’ll be okay. Whatever happens next, we’re in it together, right?”

What happens next is, in fact, another bus ride, followed by a three-block walk and a short cut through what Clint thinks is supposed to be a playground before Bucky finally rings the buzzer in front of a cinder block townhouse with narrow windows. The faded green door opens to reveal a boy, around ten years-old with curly dark hair, who immediately lights up.

“Uncle Bucky!” the boy shouts, leaving the door open as he runs back inside to announce their arrival. “Uncle Bucky’s here! Mom! Gramma! Uncle Bucky’s here!”

Suddenly, the entryway is full of people, all of them flushed and talking at once, extending arms to hug or usher them inside. 

Clint freezes. 

His heart is pounding. He can feel himself shrinking down, trying to get smaller, to hide, to make more room so he can breathe. The door closes behind him with a slam that shakes up into his knees, and now he can’t stop shaking. The people are surrounding him, talking, pressing in. Someone touches his shoulder, his elbow, his back. It’s hot inside the house, and the entry is so small. He tries to take a breath, but his throat is closed. His pulse is so fast, it feels like his heart is racing to get away from him. He can’t see, can’t think, can’t find a way out.

A hand on his neck nearly makes him pass out until he realizes that it’s Bucky, frowning at him in concern. To the crowd around them, Bucky calls out, “Alright, alright! Give us a minute, wouldja? I’m gonna bust, if I don’t take a piss right friggin’ now.”

There are laughs and _tssks_ and someone says something, but all Clint knows is that Bucky is steering him gently up a flight of stairs and away from the crush of strangers. Inside a small bathroom, he locks the door and immediately looks Clint in the eye. “Jesus Christ, are you okay? You look like you’re about to keel over.”

Clint opens his mouth to answer, to apologize or explain, but the air still isn’t quite reaching his lungs, so all that comes out is a squeak. He’d die of embarrassment if he didn’t feel like he might die of a stroke, first.

“Hey, look at me. It’s okay. You’re okay. Just sit down and breathe for a minute,” Bucky soothes, guiding Clint to sit down on the toilet lid. He fills a cup with cold water from the tap and hands it to Clint, who stares at it blankly, unsure what he’s supposed to do with it.

“Clint?” Bucky’s voice is worried in the way that he usually reserves for Steve. 

Clint knows that he should look up, should respond, but overwhelming shame is quick on the heels of just being _overwhelmed_. Most of his energy is going into staying upright and not crying; there’s just not enough left to let him meet Bucky’s clear, concerned stare.

Finally, he gets enough breath in him to manage, “Sorry.”

Bucky sighs, and Clint would swear it’s in relief. “Seriously, are you okay? Do you need to go lie down or something?”

“I’m fine,” Clint snaps. At least, the impulse is to snap, but it lacks any force and emerges as a whine. As the panic and adrenaline fade, his embarrassment steadily grows. Bucky knows he’s fucked up, but _how_ fucked up is something he’s been able to obscure. “I’m fine,” he tries again, a little steadier. “Just not used to that many people.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Guess I shoulda warned you about the ritual stampede.” Bucky clears his throat. “Listen, I gotta get out there before somebody comes to drag us out. You hang out as long as you need to, alright? Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Clint nods. He wonders if he can just stay locked in the bathroom until Christmas is over. Maybe he can claim to be sick and hide in a closet somewhere. Bucky might even bring him some food. They can have their own little holiday in a nice, quiet corner.

Bucky hesitates, frowning like he doesn’t want to leave Clint alone, but he goes after a moment, closing the door softly behind him. Clint buries his face in his hands and groans.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

All he had to do was keep his shit together long enough to help Bucky get through Christmas, and the very first thing he does is totally fall to pieces. Now Bucky’s in the kitchen, apologizing for his psycho friend having a breakdown in the bathroom. Awesome.

“You shoulda brought somebody else,” Clint grumbles at the Bucky in his imagination. “Why me, huh? Anybody else woulda been better, so why me?”

The linoleum floor doesn’t answer, and Clint feels even more ridiculous for talking to himself. At least now the embarrassment has mostly displaced the blind, unreasonable terror of being crushed by an onslaught of Barnes relatives. Bucky’s never going to let him live this down.

That thought is somehow comforting, that this will become something Bucky teases him about, a joke instead of the terrible mortification that it feels like. They’ll get home and Bucky will tell everyone his family’s so scary that Clint ran away and locked himself in the bathroom, and Clint will roll his eyes and tell him to shut up. It’ll be like the time Steve’s space heater set Bucky’s American Lit book on fire or when Natasha accidentally put Redwing in the washing machine.

Clint takes a deep breath. If things go well, he’ll have a nice dinner and a few days of hanging out with Bucky. If things go badly, he tells himself, it’ll make for a great story later.

He splashes some cold water on his face and attempts to straighten his hair in the mirror, trying on a few smiles until he settles on one that looks convincing enough: shy but charming and not at all crazy.

Finally, he opens the door and goes out to face his first family Christmas since he was nine years-old.

***

The kitchen is bustling, and Clint has to weave his way through the crowd to where Bucky is entertaining a small pack of children, including the boy who had opened the door for them.

“So then you fold it over like this and tuck this bit under here,” Bucky is explaining, doing something complicated with a piece of notebook paper. “Then you stick your fingers in these little pockets, and there you go.” He demonstrates, holding up what looks like a strange paper flower, one of the fortune-telling games kids used to make in school.

Bucky’s audience makes noises of appreciation and excitement, clearly impressed with his knowledge of arcane childhood rituals. Grinning, he turns to Clint and presents the top of the folded contraption. “Pick a color,” he says. 

The options are red, blue, black, and purple. Clint can’t help but think of bruises. “Purple,” he says, and Bucky’s grin widens, like he knew what Clint would pick.

“P-U-R-P-L-E,” Bucky spells out, spreading the panels in a different direction on each letter, an impressive feat with only one hand. At _E_ , he holds it open to a set of panels marked with 1, 3, 5, and 7.

When Clint was a kid, the girls at school would make these, and on the rare occasion they thought to talk to him, they would urge him to make one choice or another, usually so he would pick something embarrassing. Knowing Bucky made this one, Clint’s pretty sure there won’t be anything mean under the paper flaps. Pretty sure.

“Seven,” he says. Bucky gestures toward him, and Clint flips up the corner to reveal a small cartoon heart.

The crowd of kids, presumably Bucky’s cousins or nieces or something, give a collective giggle. Bucky looks absolutely delighted, which has Clint a little worried. “What?” he asks. “What’s that mean?”

“It means you’re gonna fall in love!” one of the little girls shouts. Another girl whispers something in her ear, and they burst into a fresh bout of giggling. The first girl leans in and cups her hands around Bucky’s ear to share the secret. Whatever she says has the remarkable effect of making Bucky cough and turn bright pink. He whispers something back, and the little girl gasps in delight, giving Clint a bright grin.

Clint has no idea what’s happening, but Bucky’s looking at him and smiling, so everything isn’t too terrible.

Still blushing, Bucky turns to the kids, “Listen up, troops. This guy here? This is my friend Clint, and he’s awesome, so I need you to make sure everyone is extra nice to him and tells him lots of cool stuff about me, alright?”

There is a clamor to the affirmative, and one of the boys asks Bucky, “Where’s Uncle Steve?”

“Uncle Steve’s in England with his _girlfriend_ ,” Bucky replies, to a chorus of _oooohs_ and one _eeew_.

Suddenly, the whispering girl asks Clint, “Are you Uncle Bucky’s boyfriend?”

Clint freezes. It’s an innocent question with a simple answer, but it feels like dangerous ground, even if the adults aren’t listening and the kids clearly don’t care. If Bucky is surprised or bothered, he doesn’t show it, just pokes the little girl in the shoulder and chides, “Hey! I said to be nice.”

The little girl sticks out her tongue at him, and he responds in kind, inspiring a new round giggling from the onlookers. Clint resists the urge to cling to Bucky and tells himself to calm the fuck down.

He ends up clinging anyway, grabbing hold of Bucky’s empty sleeve as Bucky takes him around the house, making introductions and wishing everyone a happy holiday. By the end, Clint has gathered that there are three Jimmies, two Jameses, one Jim, and a Jamie, only four of whom are related. The Barnes side of the family is Jewish, and the Buchannans all seem to be that particular strain of Irish that is uniformly black-haired and ridiculously good-looking. The result is that Clint, with his hay-colored hair and nervous silence, is adrift in a sea of dark heads arguing amenably about food.

There are a lot of questions about where Steve is, which Clint tries not to take personally. “Steve’s been coming to Christmas with us longer than most of the little kids have been alive. He’s family,” Bucky explains. “I’m pretty sure Uncle Joey thinks he’s my kid brother.”

“He kind of is.” Clint tries to remember if Uncle Joey is the one who joked about Bucky’s baseball career. 

“Sure, except that he’s a whole six months older than me,” Bucky grumbles. “The little bastard’s been pulling that card since he was old enough to count.”

Clint laughs. He can picture an even tinier version of Steve explaining seriously why being older means he should be in charge. “So he’s got you conditioned to do what he says,” Clint teases, and Bucky snorts.

“Ain’t that the truth.” He adds, “I mean, he’s usually right, but that just makes it even more annoying.”

“Well, I’m usually wrong, so you can tell me what to do, if it makes you feel better,” Clint says.

Bucky’s smile turns sly, but then a shadow crosses his face and dims his humor. “Nah. I like a man who knows what he wants.”

“Guess that cuts me out.”

“Don’t be too sure about that.” Bucky jerks his head toward another room they haven’t been through, his bright smile returning. “C’mon. I gotta show you off to my mom.”

The woman Bucky leads him toward is busy arranging chairs around a long table, her brow furrowed as if checking off all the tasks still ahead of her. The grey in her hair does little to fade the black that remains or to diminish the echoes of former beauty in her gracefully aging face. Bucky resembles his mother in the same way that Clint resembles his own: all her best features and none of her bearing.

“Hey, ma.” She looks up at Bucky’s voice, giving him a warm smile that hardens by the faintest fraction as she catches sight of Clint. “This is Clint. Clint, this is my adoring mother.”

“I’d be more adoring if you’d call once in awhile,” she chides, still eyeing Clint like she’s not sure what to do with him.

“How about once a week, which I do,” Bucky replies, unphased.

“You call once a week, and you can’t mention a boy?” She gestures toward Clint like he’s some souvenir Bucky picked up at a truck stop. “You just tell me you’re coming home and bring this boy you’ve known for months.”

“Just one month,” Clint points out. Mrs. Barnes shoots him a look, and he fights the impulse to wither, forcing a charming grin instead. “I really appreciate you having me. I don’t know what I’d have done if Bucky hadn’t offered to bring me with him. He’s been a great friend.”

Nothing soothes a bristling mother like praising her children, Clint has found, and Mrs. Barnes immediately softens. The fact that it’s all true only gives credence to Clint’s earnestness. “That’s my James, always looking out for everybody,” she says. With a sideways glance at Bucky, she adds, “Not that it doesn’t get him into trouble, that big heart of his.”

“Don’t worry, ma. My heart’s in safe hands with Clint,” Bucky assures her, placing a light kiss on her forehead. 

“It better be,” his mother grumbles, but she’s smiling as she says it.

If Bucky’s heart is anywhere near Clint’s hands, then someone neglected to tell Clint. Any other time, he would try to figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean, but he’s suddenly distracted by the realization that he can’t remember ever kissing his own mother. He’s sure he never received any kisses, rewarded only occasionally with a pat on the head that was more dismissive than affectionate. He had learned quickly to give both his parents as wide a berth as possible, and after their deaths, that lesson had continued to apply to most adults throughout his formative years. At this moment, the loss of what he’s never had stings more sharply than usual.

By the time they’ve said hello, merry Christmas, and happy Chanukah to every single relative and family friend, the tension and lack of sleep have caught up to Clint, and he’s starting to feel queasy with exhaustion. Thankfully, Bucky parks them in an out-of-the-way corner and lets out a massive sigh. “I need a drink,” he says. “And a nap.”

“Oh god, a nap,” Clint agrees. “And a shower. I think I still smell like bus.”

“I dunno, man, all this whole place smells like cinnamon and old people.” Bucky leans over to sniff at Clint’s shirt. “Nah, you smell nice.”

Bucky always smells like leather and vitamin E lotion, and today he’s wearing an earthy cologne that gives him a strangely medicinal scent. It’s weird but not unpleasant, though Clint thinks that has more to do with it being Bucky than anything else. He thinks that the little bit of sleep he got on the bus was only restful because his head was on Bucky’s shoulder, breathing in that scent.

“Have I said I’m glad you’re here? Because I’m really glad you’re here,” Bucky tells him. “Not just, y’know, for the company.”

A flush of heat rushes up Clint’s back. “I, um... Yeah. Me, too.”

Smiling, Bucky bumps his shoulder against Clint’s. “Just wait until dinner. You might still regret coming along.”

Dinner is either Clint’s own personal purgatory or an absurd performance piece. Even after it’s over, he still can’t decide.

The dining room, clearly designed for a much smaller crowd, is overpacked with people, chairs, and extra tables. Clint finds himself sandwiched between Bucky and a woman who is either one of Bucky’s sisters or his cousin, suddenly glad to be seated on Bucky’s left, where there’s no arm to crowd him. It’s a terrible thought, but he’s pretty sure Bucky would laugh, then spend the rest of the meal trying to get in Clint’s way.

For every person, there are at least two food dishes, and they all seem to be moving in random directions, changing hands up and down the length of the table. Deliberately or not, no one is handing anything to Clint, and he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to just reach for the plates or ask for something. Everyone is talking at once, so he can’t hear a damn thing, and he doesn’t know the names of the foods or the people to ask. The woman next to him - he’s 80% sure she’s Bucky’s sister - keeps giving him strange glances, like she’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with him. Across the table, an older man is talking in their general direction, and Clint desperately hopes it’s not meant for him.

It’s hot and loud and he’s hungry and nauseous and the panic is starting to crawl back up into his stomach until a voice beside him suddenly says, “Hey.”

Bucky is watching him, not quite frowning but not entirely committed to a smile, a fine crease between his brows. “Can you hold this for a second?”

He has a baking dish full of pasta and pineapple slices teetering awkwardly in his hand. Obediently, Clint takes it and holds it steady as Bucky spoons out two large portions, one onto his own plate and one onto Clint’s. When they’ve been served, Clint passes the dish toward a pair of hands that appear to be reaching for it. No sooner is it gone than Bucky gives him a sauce pan to hold, this one empty but for a few remnants of mashed potatoes, which Bucky scrapes from the bottom, again spooning helpings for himself and for Clint. 

This goes on until both their plates are full, and he leans over to Clint, just loud enough to be clear. “Eat the good stuff, but you can just pretend to eat whatever you don’t like. Move it around or something to make it look like you had some.”

The plate in front of Clint is more food than he’s ever had at a single meal. He’s not sure he _could_ eat it all, but he also can’t imagine just throwing any of it away. He takes a bite of some kind of hot dish and immediately reconsiders that opinion. It tastes like someone unfamiliar with human food tried to make a vegetable dish based on a rough description of the concept. All of the ingredients are fused into a gelatinous mush, like an alien creature cleverly disguised with a coating of soggy bread crumbs.

Gagging, Clint barely stops himself from spitting it back up and forces himself to swallow. He catches Bucky’s eye and gets a look of deep sympathy.

 _I am so sorry,_ Bucky mouths. On his own plate, he points to the pasta and pineapple dish and gives a slight nod, as if to say that one is safe. Warily, Clint takes a bite and finds that it’s surprisingly palatable, even if the pasta is severely undercooked.

“James, sweetie, do you need some help?” the older woman across the table asks. Exactly how old she is, Clint couldn’t say, but based on her make-up, the number is obviously much higher than she wants people to think.

Bucky spares her a brief glance, but Clint can see the muscles clench in his neck. Clint tenses, and Bucky answers, “No thanks, Aunt Rachel. I’m good.”

Aunt Rachel doesn’t seem to hear him. “Benny, cut your cousin’s turkey for him. It’s too tough.”

The man seated on Bucky’s right looks at her in disbelief. Clint can’t quite hear his answer, but it’s definitely not agreement. 

To Clint’s left, Bucky’s sister speaks up suddenly, and Clint startles. “If he needs help, he’ll ask for it.”

“And I don’t need help, so can I please just eat my dinner in peace?” Bucky drawls. He looks as much at ease as he always does, but Clint can feel the tension seeping off of him. Under the table, he shifts his foot so that his knee is resting against Bucky’s, just to reassure him that he’s not on his own.

“Just let your cousin help you. Head like a brick you’ve got,” the older man chides, presumably the Uncle counterpart to Aunt Rachel. “Benny, listen to your mother and help James.”

“He can do it himself!” cousin Benny protests, as Bucky echoes, “I can do it myself!”

The piece of turkey on Bucky’s plate is thick and dry, but there are already several chunks cut off of it. “I’m poking it with a steak knife, not challenging it to a duel,” he says.

Aunt Rachel throws her hands in the air, both in frustration and surrender. “Fine! Fine, so you don’t need help. You’re a big, tough boy, and you can do everything yourself. This is what I get for being a loving aunt.”

“Would you leave him alone, already?” Bucky’s sister cuts in. Clint thinks that he should figure out what her name is, but he’s eyeing the exits for a clean escape, wondering how to get Bucky to make a break for it, scanning the table for defensive weapons.

“Don’t talk to your aunt like that,” the older man snaps, and Clint flinches.

“Tell her not to talk to my brother like he’s five!” she shoots back.

By now, there are voices from other parts of the table weighing in on the action, but Clint can’t hear what they’re saying. Everyone is angry and talking over each other, and Clint is starting to sink down in his seat. He wants to disappear, to run, to punch everyone who has something to say about Bucky, to be back in Sam and Nat’s apartment where things are quiet and safe.

“Every year for ten years, I’ve been cutting my own damn Christmas turkey, and every year for ten years, you tell Ben to help me.” Bucky is gesturing at Aunt Rachel with the steak knife, and Clint watches the blade warily. “What do you want? You want someone to sit here and spoon feed me?

“That’s not what I’m saying!” she protests. “A man should know his limitations, is all I’m saying.”

“And what are my limitations, Aunt Rachel?” Bucky growls, his easy cool worn away to simmering anger. “What are my fucking limitations?”

“James, that’s enough!” Down the table, Bucky’s mother is half way out of her seat, like she’s deciding whether to jump to his defense or drag him out of the room. Clint wishes she would do both.

Aunt Rachel doesn’t take the hint. “That attitude, right there. That’s your real problem. Any other boy would have learned his lesson, but you keep getting into trouble. God forbid you should accept that you can’t do everything like a normal person.”

“Shut up!” It’s out of Clint’s mouth before he can stop it, and the family is shocked enough to fall silent, staring at him. He tries to make himself stop, but he’s trapped and angry, ready to fight his way out. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You don’t get to say that shit to him. Just leave him the fuck alone!”

There is a full beat of stunned silence, just long enough for Clint to feel properly mortified, then everyone starts talking at once. Some of them are yelling at him, some are yelling at Bucky, and Aunt Rachel is crying and yelling something unintelligible at Bucky’s mother. Clint hunches down in his seat, waiting for someone to hit him or throw him out, afraid they might take it out on Bucky.

Instead, Bucky leans in close to catch Clint’s eye and jerks his head toward the door. “Let’s go for a walk.”

All Clint can do is nod and follow along as Bucky leads him out, shouts chasing them as they go. The younger kids, banished to the living room for the meal, are clustered in the doorway to see what the fuss is. A few of them follow Bucky and Clint into the foyer, but they stop at a gesture from Bucky.

“Everything’s fine guys. I’m just gonna show Clint around a little,” he tells them, clearly trying to sound casual, and even the youngest faces look skeptical.

“Was somebody mean to you?” the whispering girl asks Clint, wide-eyed and serious.

Clint makes himself shake his head and answer in mock-severity, “Worse. They were mean to your Uncle Bucky.”

The kids gasp in shock, but one of the Buchanan cousins comes to herd them away before they can properly express their outrage. He gives Bucky a wry look. “Guess it’s not Christmas until Rachel puts her foot in her mouth.”

Bucky snorts. “Family tradition.”

The cousin is still wrangling the kids back to dinner as Bucky ushers Clint out the door and onto the cold Brooklyn street. The icy wind is a shock after the stifling heat of the house, and Clint shivers, hoping Bucky isn’t just showing him to the bus stop. “Maybe we oughta grab coats.”

“Nah, we’re not going far,” Bucky says, as if he has a specific destination in mind. 

Sure enough, they cross the street at the corner, and he leads Clint into a small bakery with wide wire grating over the windows. The stooped, balding man at the counter glances up from his newspaper, then squints and coughs as he recognizes Bucky.

“Every year, I think I might get to close early,” he sighs, putting down his paper and climbing gingerly down from his stool. “And every bloody year, here you are like clockwork.”

“If I didn’t show up, you’d probably call my mom to see if I was okay,” Bucky replies, and the old man shrugs.

“Maybe, but I’d close early, first.” He pats Bucky’s back affectionately, at odds with his dour expression. “Sit. I’ll get some food.”

There are a few modest tables against the wall, and Clint follows Bucky to the one nearest the counter. Clint is starting to piece together a few of Bucky’s personal holiday traditions, and it makes him feel a little better to think that, in years past, Steve was here with him.

When the old man returns, he has a tray piled with pastries, cheese, and sausage and a steaming pot of strong tea. “You’re early. I suppose you didn't eat much at your mum’s.”

“I was a coupla bites into the turkey when Aunt Rachel started in,” Bucky confirms, already assembling a sandwich out of the assorted options. Clint assumes some of it’s probably for him, too, but he doesn’t reach for it until Bucky gestures for him to go ahead. “Clint here gave ‘em what for, though. Nearly gave granny Barnes a heart attack.”

The old man gives Clint an appraising look, and Clint flushes, his mouth full of bread and cheese. After a moment, the old man holds out a spindly hand. “Gerald Carter. I’m sorry this scoundrel seems to have forgotten his manners.”

Clint’s mouth is too full of bread and cheese to answer, but he takes the offered hand and tries to mumble a response. Bucky gives a short laugh. “This is my hero, Clint Barton.”

“Hero’s a good friend to have,” Mr. Carter says wisely. “Especially when the little lion’s not around.”

“The little lion had to go see about the lady lion,” Bucky says around a bit of sausage. “But I got another big cat to back me up.”

He winks at Clint, and Clint hides his blush behind swallow of tea. The lion in question must be Steve, which is a strangely appropriate analogy. By comparison, Clint thinks he’s probably more of an alley cat.

As they make their way slowly through the pile of food, which is slightly stale but absolutely delicious, Mr. Carter catches Bucky up on all the neighborhood gossip and entertains Clint with stories of Bucky and Steve’s childhood misadventures, which is how Clint discovers that Steve’s English sort-of-girlfriend, Peggy, is Mr. Carter’s niece and that she lived with him for a few years as a kid. After an hour, Clint has learned more about the neighborhood than he could ever need to know and is more full of food than he’s ever been in his life. There’s nothing left on the tray but crumbs.

“We better get back before my sisters assemble a search party,” Bucky remarks, stretching as he stands. Clint feels like he could roll down the street or curl up under the table and take a nap. He definitely doesn’t feel like he can go back to face Bucky’s family.

Mr. Carter waves a hand dismissively. “They’d only come right here. Anytime there was trouble, you and your whole gang would bolt in here like rabbits.”

“Only ‘cause you’d feed us,” Bucky replies, which Clint thinks is a pretty good reason to keep coming back.

“I felt sorry for you, bunch of skinny little urchins.” For the first time since they arrived, Mr. Carter gives Bucky a fond smile. “Not so skinny now though, are you?”

“Steve still is,” Bucky points out, and Mr. Carter shrugs.

“He makes up for it.” Looking to Clint, he points at Bucky and says, “I don’t care what he tells you, this here’s a good lad. You stick with him, you’ll be alright.”

Clint isn’t sure there’s anyone on earth with enough good to make him alright, but he knows for sure that he’s better because of Bucky. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

Mr. Carter nods, apparently satisfied, and shows them to the door with well wishes. “Tell your mother I have some of those sweet rolls she likes.”

Back out in the street, Bucky pauses at the corner, like he’s trying to decided whether to turn left, back to the house, or choose any other direction and just keep walking. Clint knows the feeling.

“We don’t have to go back,” he suggests. “We could find somewhere to hang out a little longer or just grab our stuff and go home.”

He knows they can’t. That’s not how these things work. They’ll go back and face whatever immediate consequences they have to, and everyone will carry on for the rest of the day like nothing happened. Unless someone decides to kick Clint out; that might cause a hiccup, if only because Bucky is the kind of guy who wouldn’t let his friend be thrown out in the cold.

Bucky shakes his head. “Don’t tempt me. Come on. We should have missed desert by now. All that’s left is the presents.”

He starts across the street, but Clint stays frozen on the street corner, gaping. “Shit.”

Bucky stops to look back at him. “What?”

If there was any way for this to get worse, Clint thinks, this is it. “I didn’t bring any presents.”

For a long time, Bucky stares at him blankly, then he turns around and just starts laughing. He laughs the whole way back.

***

It turns out they weren’t supposed to bring presents, since the gift exchange is only for the kids. As nominal adults with no children, they’re exempt from the process.

“There are rules about who does the whole present thing,” Bucky tells him, “but it involves diagrams and Channukkah. Bottom line: don’t worry about it.”

Clint’s other source of worry also turns out to be nothing. Expecting at least some reprisal for his outburst, all he gets is a cold look from Aunt Rachel and some disdainful sniffing from a few other relatives. The Buchanan cousin who saw them out - Clint thinks he might be one of the Jimmies, or possibly a Lliam - claps him on the back and offers him a beer.

Altogether, the rest of the day passes uneventfully, and Clint even wins some extra favor with Bucky’s mother by helping with the dishes. Slowly, the crowd thins until the only family remaining are those intending to stay the night. Included in that number are two of Bucky’s sisters, one who lives in the house and one who is visiting from Maine, both their families, the Buchanan cousin, who is in fact called Lliam, his family, and an elderly woman who is either Bucky’s grandmother or another aunt. It’s a full house, and it isn’t surprising that the only space left for Clint and Bucky is the dining room floor.

What is surprising, or at least unexpected, is that they’re given a single standard-sized air mattress to share, just large enough to be reasonable and just small enough to be awkward. The chairs have been cleared away, and the mattress fits between the dining room table and the wall with an inch or two of clearance on either side. The big bay window is covered, but no casual curtain can withstand the lights of a New York street. Clint’s half of the mattress is beneath the overhang of the table, casting him in shadow, while the glow from the window falls across Bucky so that his face is awash in soft blues and flickering whites.

He is lying on his side and staring at Clint, intense and thoughtful. Clint tries to stare back, but he doesn’t know what might surface in his eyes for Bucky to see.

The moment he looks away, Bucky says lightly, “For the record, my family doesn’t actually chase me out of the house every year. I don’t want you to think that.”

“Good.” Quickly, Clint adds, “I mean, it’s good they don’t. I’m sorry for, y’know, this year.”

“Nah. This year was bad, but it wasn’t the worst,” Bucky assures him. “I think everybody was mostly shocked that you said that many words at once.”

Groaning, Clint covers his face. “Jesus. I can’t even stand up for you without fucking it up.”

Bucky laughs and gently pulls Clint’s hand away. “You were great. Thanks.”

He doesn’t let go. Instead he looks down to where their hands are resting together on the piled blankets, his fingers curled around Clint’s. Clint watches him, holding his breath, waiting for whatever’s about to happen.

After a moment, Bucky begins quietly, “This was always a good neighborhood. Not a lot of money, but everybody knew everybody. It was nice. Still is.”

He pauses, and Clint has no idea where this is going until Bucky goes on, “There were these kids that started making trouble, mugging people, messing up shops, breaking into houses, that kind of shit. It was right before Christmas, so they were stealing a lot of gifts and stuff. Everybody knew it was the same kids, but nobody knew who they were or where to look, so the cops couldn’t do anything.”

He stops again, and this time he seems to be chewing on something tough, something hard to get out right. Finally, he says, “What happened wasn’t Steve’s fault. It was his idea, but you gotta know it wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t anybody’s, really. Just a stupid fucking accident.”

Clint wants to thread his fingers through Bucky’s, to hold on tight in the dark, but he doesn’t move, just stays still and silent until the story starts again.

“Steve figured they were grabbing so much stuff at once, they either had a getaway car or they were stashing it somewhere close, so all we had to do was follow ‘em. If they had a car, we get the plates; if they had a hideout, we get pictures. Easy.” In a hard, quiet voice, like he’s still defending Steve, Bucky says, “It was a good plan, and it worked. We set up one of our buddies with a dummy computer box, they took the bait, and me, Steve, and Peggy tracked ‘em right back to this construction site they were hanging out in.

“Found out later one of their dad’s was the developer or something. They were just some rich punks, slumming around playing criminals.” Bucky shakes his head, still not looking at Clint. “You wouldn’t think they’ve ever seen a gun, much less that one of ‘em would have one.”

Clint’s skin goes cold. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “I mean, we’d never seen one, either. We had a plan for what to do if we got caught, where to run, where to meet up, but all three of us just panicked. Those guys started after us, and we ran blind.”

“Seems like a normal response,” Clint points out. It’s hardly reassurance, but Bucky gives him a weak smile in appreciation.

“Normal, sure. Smart? Not so much,” Bucky says. “One of the guys chased me up into the building. It was just beams and plywood, but I kept climbing. Figured this guy was bigger, so maybe I could get somewhere he’d be too heavy to follow. Didn’t work out so good.”

Bucky shakes his head, leaving it turned further into his pillow, obscuring some of the words. “They said I fell, but I don’t remember. All I know is I woke up in the hospital with Steve holding one hand and the other hand… not there.”

That’s not the end of the story. There would have been anger and pain, recriminations and consequences, medical bills and new definitions for words that had always applied to other people. Bucky would have spent months relearning the simplest tasks, years adjusting to the new dimensions of his body and the space he occupied in the world. Clint knows from experience that waking up in a hospital is never the end of the story, just the beginning of new horrors.

He tightens his hand around Bucky’s and shifts closer on the tiny mattress, their toes touching under the thick blankets. “Thank you,” he says quietly. 

Bucky’s smile is small and unsteady, too fragile to survive outside this single moment, but when he looks at Clint, his dark eyes are sure. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

The heat Clint feels doesn’t come in a rush but in a slow flood, filling him with warmth like a swallow of hot cocoa. He smiles back.

“Me, too.”


End file.
